Mujahedeen
by D72
Summary: Ewoks prove more than "allies".
1. Chapter 1

Mujahedeen

Ewoks prove more than "allies".

Post Victory Feast, everyone was ready to get going. Everyone but the Ewoks. People forgot that the "cute teddy bears" took down stormtroopers by pike, bow, or hand crafted stone and wood maul.

So, while Luke, Leia, Han, Chewbacca. C3PO, R2D2, and Lando found a festive celebration, other "alliance to restore the republic" soldiers found a fucking nightmare beyond compare. Each celebratory drum set cost at least five individuals their lives, and the "Heroes of the Alliance" seemed too high on victory to see the warning signs. Where the Emperor saw humanity as the supreme being, Ewoks saw BBQ supplies.

And yeah, it's a pretty simple blind spot. While eating a dog to most western hemisphere Americans seems barbaric, when the chips are down, morals go out the window pretty damn fast, and this was an oversight waiting for murphy.

Which brings us to Reality Programming. More specifically, The Real Wives of Coruscant. While here on earth, plastic titted bimbos spend their husbands entire savings trying to appear posh, the Real Housewives of Coruscant found themselves on a much higher level. That being said, Reality TV is Reality TV, the "principals" were straight up garbage.

And they done fucked up.

No matter how many zeroes you have on your spending account, you've still got to find someone willing to take those credits, and these morons found their credits didn't spend.

I mean to be fair, this was a good seven years post denouement, The death star had long been recycled, not burning up the forest moon of Endor as some might think, the place was cleaned up. Yeah, that one Bunker was a military memorial, for lives lost, or whatever.

Mostly, Endor was seen as a camping destination for the insanely overprivileged. Rather than tents, campers had entirely prefab campsites, done out in "roughing it" fatigues, i.e. Not at all. Condos for dodos. Dress up in camouflage and pointy hats. Maybe a bit of speeder bike racing, for those such inclined, but rare.

And resentment? It came back hard. Ewoks couldn't speak basic. They just weren't built for it. And besides, they had a perfectly good language, and it should have been included in translator databases.

Key word being should have. Instead, government programs strongly suggested that Ewoks get with the program.

Which, once again, they couldn't do. It wasn't a matter of thinking they were above language requirements, they flat out couldn't meet the needs of standard.

Their home, which they only ever knew of as their home, was turned into a tourist site by people who didn't think much of them to begin with, or infantilized them for a secondary insult. Their culture never considered, their tree homes considered "charming".

And it wasn't warmly met. The rudeness of the tourists bred resentment, galactic language standards led to financial hardship, and essentially, things became a pressure cooker.

And the Real Wives of Coruscant set it off.

Specifically, Camille Orsan. She passed customs without following the cultural requirements, money spent to clear such a hassle. She was dressed in her best Leia knockoffs, and was drunk off her tits. She saw a small ewok, snagged it into a bear hug, and kept walking.

The parents took offense, yelling about their stolen child. The security detail put blaster bolts in the heads of the parents, and edited out the footage. Camille become a hero, saving a poor destitute orphan ewok, while treating it like a dog.

This was both witnessed, and viciously opposed. Ewoks had not received any great representation in the new senate, holding only the single forest moon, and the heroes of the rebellion had fucked off to their own devices.

The pressure cooker hit boil. Already disenfranchised by not having representation post victory, the Ewoks were done playing nice, and worked out plans.

THIS PART IS PAST MY WRITING SKILLS. SPECIFICALLY WE WOULD HAVE A REAL HOUSEWIVES TYPICAL SCENE WHERE THEY ARE GARBAGE, AND THEY WOULD BE MET BY AN EWOK RAIDING PARTY, ALA RETURN OF THE JEDI. CAMILLE ORSAN WOULD GET A BONE SPEAR THROUGH THE EYE, AND THE REST OF THE HOUSEWIVES WOULD BE CONSUMED IN SOMETHING RESEMBLING THE REAVER SCENES IN FIREFLY

Chapter 2 would be about a holonet pirate who accidentally streamed the episode where the "wives of Coruscant" became dog food. The pirate would find himself in "protective custody" of a Jedi Order formed entirely too quickly by Luke Skywalker.

Instead of becoming a Hermit, Luke became a a poster boy for the Jedi under the overachieving eyes of his sister, Leia. This would NOT be a good thing.

And that's where I burned out.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm Bill. No surname, no complications.

I work on a long haul freighter, bulk goods for the most part.

If asked at blaster point, and let's be honest, you are, I run a small hub network in censored holonet broadcasts. Generally it's a way to see the nobs in the nuddie, but we get the occasional impolotic statement on a chat show as well. Like when Han Solo mentioned how proud he was that his wife killed Jabba the Hutt, and the absolute karking laser glare she leveled on him. Who knew the first consort had such fortitude? I would have straight up DIED if the Empress glared at me like that.

I guess that's why he's a General, and I'm just a space rat. Granted, you're really making me doubt my future prospects as such.

So yeah, I caught the hot one. In my defence, it wasn't flagged when I caught it, and you can't say otherwise. Live Broadcasts have their bumps, but yellow and red band broadcasts are restricted, and I respect those rules.

As happy as the Real Wives are to go topless, it goes out pixelated, and I've never run a de-rezzer on it, unlike others.

As to the language, I've always been fully compliant with Imperial, and now Republic filters. No Dissident broadcasts here.

So the whole racket you've got going here, two guards per door, lightsabers lit and waiting? It's a bit unnerving for an unsophisticate such as myself. This will be wrapped up soon, Right?


	3. Chapter 3

"So Mr Sinube..."

"Thank you Master Jedi."

"Oh, I'm no Master, I'm just Jedi Perkins. We've decided the Padawan rank was too subserviant, and the Master role had... Negative implications."

"Thank you Jedi Perkins, that's cleared up absolutely nothing."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more clear, might I ask why you are petitioning the Order?"

"Yes well, we have a Client, who chooses to go by the appelation 'Bill' "

"Oh, I'm Sorry Mr. Sinube, we have no records of a Mr. Bill"

"Yes of course, unfortunately, this is not a social call, I am officially filing a grievience agaisnt the Order, under subline 42, subsection b."

"Well that's very unfortunate Counselor, but I must repeat..."

"Yes, that you have no knowledge of our Client, Bill *****. Unfortunately, we have been lead to believe, by subcutaneous transmission, that your order is in posession of Mr. Bill, in the area of Moddell sector.

Furthermore, absent an imperial - I apologize, in absence of a republic warrent, Our firm, of Dessik, Morik, and Howe, must demand the return of our client, from the August order of the Jedi."

To the email reviewer who requested more fuckin', WHAT THE FUCK? We don't even have a stable cast here. Do you want the Ewoks to fuck the scenery?


	4. Chapter 4

-Okay asshole, you wanted fuckin', here you go. -

Megor had slipped the oversight of his clan, and he knew exactly what he was about. Fuckin'.

So he crept through the leaves, quietly, confidently, he made his way to the tourist speeder bikes, with their garish paintjobs, and their disgusting carbonite fenders.

He got right up to the weirdly anachronistic tailpipe of that speeder, and he just started fuckin' it. Like a teenager that had never fucked before, and despite bragging, Megor had never fucked before, he just pumped and jerked and swung, and honestly, I am running out of words for a teddy bear fucking a tailpipe, but he spazmatically jerked the most any teenage (LEGAL) Ewok who ever humped.

And then he fell over spent. And the resort security ventilated his skull with blaster bolts.

"Gods" thought the security guard "This posting is fucking weird." Which was weird in and of itself. He didn't curse to any seven hells, no sithspit, no kriff, he just thought the posting was fucking weird. What change would this strange guard be, a portent for in this world? Nah, just kidding, he gets his throat slit before it can become important.

-What does this really mean, Am I a whore for reviews? Probably.-


	5. Chapter 5

Sgt. Schmoogs was a practical man. A practical man surrounded by death. By Fire, by blaster, by mangling, he'd seen just about every type of death one could see. And then some, depending on theater.

So the battle of the forest moon of Endor was a fucking charnel house. No, he hadn't had to fire his fifth or sixth hand blaster rifle, and he was thankful for that. He'd personally tested each rifle for his squad, and to say he was alarmed was an understatement. He'd thought his men would have been better off with sticks and rocks, but the mission was under the blasted princess and her consort, "General" Solo.

To say Schmoogs was not a fan of the General was an understatement. When officers wing plans, men die. And a shrug was as far a battle plan as Solo ever mustered.

So he sat on his knees, hands behind his head, and waited for the piercing whine that would usher him to darkness.

But it didn't come. Those same rocks and sticks he would have preferred his men to have rained down on the bleached bastards, and he was in the thick of it. Blood and death, fire and soot. He fought with everything in him, and more.

And he found himself folded into a force. Not of the men he had trained, who openly joked about killing him and taking his place, no he found himself among a gibbering clan of three foot tall morons. But they listened better than the human troops he had ushered. Through simple hand gestures, he commanded one of the finest group of soldiers he'd ever served with.

Those brave little fuckers braved everything, being mashed to shit by the chicken walkers, weeping over their fallen brethren before pulling them away for funeral rites, Those bastards had a spirit both electrifying and terrifying. They Did. Not. Quit!

And neither did schmoogs. Later, at the victory celebration, he was horrified. Stormie meat was a main entrée, so he drank whatever it was the furry little bastards fermented, and he kept drinking.

-7 years later-

Needless to say, when Sgt. Shmoogs failed to muster after the celebrations, he was discharged. Not dishonorably, he'd been wounded bad enough for a medical, but the new government disclaimed a lot of alliance personnel, claimed they were volunteers, undeserving of a pension. Veterans of the clone wars were no source of sympathy.

So Schmoogs stayed. He lived a simple life, with his radiator juice, or whatever the furry fucks had managed to ferment that week. He stripped hides for supplies. He'd sell off pelts of particularly attractive beasts to the resorts. Every bitch on Coruscant wanted a fur coat, and as long as it was shiny enough, who cared where it came from. Shmoogs knew none of those socialites cared if they were wearing wookie, so what was a six legged nightmare beast worth? Quite a lot, if he wasn't mistaken. They had pretty fur despite resembling something you'd rather die than look at.

Which found him at the landing site, two morons in speeder troop armor holding pristine E-11's, as he negotiated with the latest moron tailor at the resort.

"Now I'm not saying these are bad pal, what I'm saying is that we're under constraints. Constraints that keep us from moving in the usual fluid market, if you know what I mean, and I know you are. You are after all, a business man my friend. And so I'm going to make you a deal. These furs are spectacular. Amazing even. If I could get away with it, I'd give my mistress and my wife each one of these fuckin' things, and I'd be golden, but I can't. So I'm going to have to insist you take the case."

"Roight then, what's in the case." Shmoogs amicably replied.

"See, that's the problem, you can't ask me that, you've just gotta take it.". Replied the motormouth.

"Why, that sounds just fine to me, I'll just be popping the corner then, havin' meself a look".

"I-I, I guess that's okay. This is fresh off Coruscant, hot shit friend, the hottest. You'll have no trouble moving this down at durga's"

"And now what makes you think I have business at durga's" The reply was sharp, the eye contact piercing. Shmoogs didn't mix business, that lead to entanglements. Entanglements weren't a part of his current life.

"And what the KARK am I supposed to do with these purple Flargin, Electicity dischargin' ONIONS?" He bellowed. He hadn't drawn a weapon, he didn't need to. The guards had actually mellowed, stowing their rifles behind their backs. Apparently Fast Talk was a shit boss, and they didn't much care for them.

Sadly, this was the perfect storm. Shmoogs had dried a bit more than he liked, found himself in a deal he liked even less, and he recognized the powder-keg he stood upon.

Even worse, he flat didn't care. He raised a fist in the air.

"W-wha-what is this?" Fast talk stuttered, "I mean yeah, independent contractor power, represent, but-"

Shmoogs dropped the arm. The two guards lost their heads, literally, as two shadows dropped from their trees, bone blades dripping.

"Fuh- KARK! Look, we can make a deal, I know we can make a deal".

"Deals up Fasto." Shmoogs dropped a kick in the center of fast talk's chest, he went over the edge of the landing pad. Not the farrest drop, but it was one that would require medical attention.

Meanwhile, the resort began to burn.


	6. - a phantom hunger -

Chpt 6. - A phantom hunger -

Sgt schmoogs stared down at the corpses of the security guards and shrugged. He pulled out the sack with the dollar sign on it he had brought for the payoff, and began filling it with the purple electric space onions. No sense in carrying around a hard case when he had the sack. He did wonder at the symbol on the bag though? He'd got it off a rather strange bank robber a while back. Waste not, want not, he remembered.

Sauntering from the "docks" area of the resort, he noted the screaming, and smelled the fire. It made him hungry, so he stepped into the retail sector, went through the Okay, I'm drawing a brain fart here, the weird little air conditioned room at fast food joints you have to walk through

and walked into the sealed food court. No one in the food court had a clue about the rampage outside, as they were all on their space phones, updating their insta-gram with pictures of the food they would never eat IT'S HOLOGRAMS NOW. They also bitched on Space Yelp about the automated service.

Schmoogs strolled up to an ice cream counter, and held up a purple electric onion. "What can I get for one a these things"

"Oh hello valued customer, welcome to General Hoth's confectionary! May I interest you in a membership card?"

Schmoogs grumbled, shifted his feet a bit, then punched a Holo-com number into the droids face.

"Welcome back LANDO CALRISSIAN, how may I serve you?"

"I asked," schmoogs grumbled "What can I get for one a these?". "Oh my" the droid simpered, "A single Jogan fruit would net you a considerable amount of store credit!"

"Whatever" said Schmoogs, looks like he'd have to hit the rest of the mall to find out what the damn things were worth. "Do that, and I'll get a large cone of Star wars flavor.

Shortly, he had his ice cream. He turned, and suffered the first personal tragedy of his day. The cone fell, directly onto the boot of some foppish fop.

Schmoogs was LIVID, he really loved Star wars flavor

"Watch it you piece of shit motherfucker, when my father hears of this-" Schmoogs stopped him, with the E-11 he'd liberated from one of the dead guards. He then blasted the service droid as well.

"Was a boring conversation anyway"


End file.
